


Mystery Dance

by fictionalaspect



Series: Waiting for the End of the World [2]
Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: BDSM, High School, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's too much, isn't it," Spencer says quietly, and Brendon looks up to see  him standing in the doorway, messenger bag slung across one shoulder like he's about to leave.</p><p>"No," Brendon says, even though he thinks he probably means, <i>yes, </i>or at least,<i> maybe.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mystery Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Contains themes of internalized kink shame, and teenagers who don't know what they're doing or how to process or describe what they want. This story may be triggery (in language, not content) for survivors of domestic abuse; please scroll down to the end for a more detailed discussion of content and themes. Thanks go to romantical and sunsetmog for their beta work on this story.

"Spencer," Brendon says hesitantly, after the sixth time Spencer crowds him into his kitchen counter by accident. "Um. Can we talk about this?"

"Seriously, I'm telling you, Ryan knows her sister and she's _crazy_ ," Spencer says, continuing their earlier conversation. Then he says, "Wait, what?"

"I—Spence," Brendon says, and shifts his hip into Spencer's hip, moving his body so it's suddenly obvious just how little personal space he has. Spencer's leaning over him, one arm resting on the counter top. The sharp edge of the Formica is pressing into the side of Brendon's stomach.

"Oh," Spencer says, pulling away.

"It's okay," Brendon says hurriedly. "It's okay. I just." He rubs at his side, fingers skimming over the thick red line indented into his skin.

"Yeah," Spencer says. He looks at Brendon for a long moment, his face entirely blank, and then he turns and walks out of the room.

Brendon scrubs a hand over his face, reaching up underneath his glasses to press at the bridge of his nose. It's been a weird week, full of weird revelations, and it's not like it hasn't been awesome—it has—but Spencer apparently wasn't kidding about being intense. It's like he's there every time Brendon turns around. It's starting to make Brendon's chest feel tight.

"It's too much, isn't it," Spencer says quietly, and Brendon looks up to see him standing in the doorway, messenger bag slung across one shoulder like he's about to leave.

"No," Brendon says, even though he thinks he probably means, _yes,_ or at least, _maybe._ "That's not what I meant."

"It's fine," Spencer says. "It's fine. I'll just—go. It's okay. You're not the first person to point it out." He smiles humorlessly at Brendon. "I told you this would happen."

"That's not even what I was going to say," Brendon says tiredly. He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, to sink his fingers into the places where his muscles are locked tight. It doesn't help. "You didn't—fuck you, don't just walk out on me. At least stay and listen."

"I'd rather not," Spencer says, and he's hunched in on himself, already defeated. "I know what you're going to say."

"How," Brendon snaps. " _How_ do you know what I'm going to say? Just fucking answer me that. Because I don't even know what I was going to say."

"I do, because I've heard it before," Spencer says. "You were going to tell me to stop being so fucking weird. You were going to tell me to back off and give you some space."

"That's not," Brendon stops himself with a frustrated sigh, because that is it, but at the same time it's _not_ and he doesn't know how to put that into words, not really. He doesn't know how to explain that part of him loves the way Spencer crowds him into things, keeps him close, carries things for him. Part of him loves the way Spencer will wander off and buy him a soda halfway through practice, or pay for his meals when they go out, but part of him wants Spencer to maybe _ask_ sometimes before he decides he knows what Brendon wants.

"I told you, I do this. And it's fucked up, and I know it is, but I don't know how to do anything else and I just—" Spencer's mouth is set, jaw clenched like he's angry, but Brendon knows he's just angry at himself. He takes two steps forward. Spencer can be intimidating sometimes, coiled up tight like he's ready to strike, but Brendon's never been afraid of him. He's been annoyed, and frustrated, and pissed off, but he's never been afraid.

"Don't," Spencer says, stepping backwards as Brendon comes closer.. "Just. Brendon, don't. Not right now."

"What do you mean, _don't_ ," Brendon says. "What, you can get all up in my space, but I can't get in yours?"

" _Don't_ —" Spencer snaps, raising one of his hands to warn Brendon off, but stopping himself before he actually grabs Brendon's shoulder. Brendon takes a deep breath. His heart is pounding. "What, you afraid you're going to hurt me?" Brendon says carefully, and he's not sure, but it feels like something is clicking into place. There's a thread of anticipation under his skin, thrumming deeper, even as his stomach twists itself up into knots. _Adrenaline_ , he thinks, and wonders if pushing Spencer like this is going to backfire horribly. "Is that it? Is that why?" Brendon asks. "Is that why you push and you push and then when I point it out, you back down and freak out?"

"I don't _want to push_ ," Spencer says, and he's still holding himself apart from Brendon, still keeping a careful distance between them. "I told you, I'm not going to be an abusive dickwad boyfriend, okay? I know what I'm like. I fucking hate it and I try but I just want—" Spencer swallows. "It's like I can't think when I'm around you. That's not an excuse. It just. It makes it hard."

"What makes it hard?" Brendon asks. "I mean yes, sometimes you're weird and bossy and I want to tell you to cut it the fuck out. But what makes it so hard? What are you so afraid of?"

"Jesus, Brendon," Spencer snaps, and he's backed up against the kitchen table now, every line of his body tight and angry. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

"I want you to tell me what you're so scared of," Brendon says. "And I want us to figure this shit out, okay? You're so—" Brendon waves his hand in frustration, conscious of how the movement describes everything and nothing about the words he can't seem to pluck out of thin air. "You're fucked up about this," Brendon says. "And I don't get it."

"I hurt Jenna," Spencer says, after a long moment. Spencer's face is impassive. His hands are clenched around the single wooden rung on the back of one of Brendon's ancient kitchen chairs, like he's trying to keep them from shaking.

"What?" Brendon says softly, hoping against hope that he didn't hear that correctly.

"I hurt her," Spencer says sharply. "Fuck, Brendon. I said I was sorry, I apologized. I told her over and over that I didn't mean to, that I don't want to be that guy. I'm not that guy. You can't let me be that guy with you. I mean, shit, I don't want to be that guy with anyone, but especially not with you."

"What...what did you do?" Brendon says his stomach twisting in fear. "Spencer—"

"I—her hips," Spencer says, closing his eyes. "I didn't mean to. I mean we were—you know, and I just dug my fingers in and when we were done she told me it had been really good, but I had kind of been hurting her at the end. I looked and...and she had these little purple dots. Five of them on each side. I wanted to—" He looks like he's going to be sick right now.

"Don't throw up," Brendon says, his eyes widening. "Whoa, hey. Spence. Look at me. Calm down. It's okay." Brendon reaches out his hand, and Spencer jerks away, his hands coming off the chair rung fast enough to cause the chair to overbalance and crash to the floor. "I mean, it's not okay. It was an accident, but she didn't like it. That part's fucked up. But you didn't—" Brendon stops. The chair is lying on its side on his kitchen floor and Spencer is standing behind it with a terrified expression. He decides to ignore the chair for right now and concentrate on Spencer. "Nothing worse, right? Like this isn't you telling me something I need to call the cops about, right?" Brendon says, keeping his voice light.

"Jesus," Spencer says, and his voice shakes a little on the vowels. " _No_ , fuck. Brendon. I wouldn't— _no_. I could never do that."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Okay." He feels lightheaded. A little sick inside. And a little turned on, which is fucked up. "So you made a mistake, and she told you, and you apologized and you didn't do it again?"

"But I could," Spencer says tightly, backing towards Brendon's front door. "It was an accident before. It could happen again. So just let me leave, okay? Don't do this. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Don't make _what_ harder than it has to be?" Brendon asks. "Don't—are you seriously—?" He reaches out, shoving Spencer's hands away from the doorknob.

"Yeah, I am. Seriously." Spencer says. "Because this is how it started, okay? With Jenna. I'm doing the same thing to you that I did with her and I just need to like—" Spencer scrubs a hand over his face. "I need to be in fucking therapy or something," Spencer says softly, his shoulders slumping. Brendon watches as he leans his back up against the wall of the tiny entryway, and slowly slides to the floor, leaving a trail of cracking paint chips as he goes. He rests his head on the side of the small window. "People aren't supposed to want the kind of things I want sometimes," Spencer whispers, looking anywhere but Brendon.

"Me either," Brendon blurts out, and tries to ignore the feeling of movement beneath his feet, like the floorboards are rocking on an unsteady sea. He thinks he's probably breathing too fast. He's a little scared and a little breathless and a small part of him wants to run far, far away from Spencer, from himself. But the rest of him, the largest part of him, wants to crowd closer—wants to fix whatever is so broken inside Spencer and tell him that it's okay, it's okay, he can do that to Brendon. Brendon _wants_ it.

"Tell me what you want," Brendon says quietly as he sits down next to Spencer, still leaving some distance between them.. "Because I think I probably want that too. And I'm not saying that whatever happened with Jenna wasn't weird and fucked up, because it probably was. I wasn't there, so I don't know. But I think it's different if I—if someone _wants_ that," Brendon says, fumbling with the words.

"But—"

"And you never gave me the chance to say that I did," Brendon says. "Which is one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I don't care if you're intense. It's kind of hot. But you have to give me a say in it."

"A say?" Spencer says, scrunching his forehead up in confusion.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "Because sometimes I want you all up in my space. Sometimes I want to think about you bruising me and biting me and hurting me and telling me what to do, and sometimes I don't."

"You—" Spencer says unsteadily.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to try something," Brendon says slowly. "Before you freaked out. I was going to see if maybe you wanted to like—be in charge. For a few hours or something. Because then we could be here and I could do whatever you wanted and if you wanted to follow me around and pick out my food and—all that shit. You could." And wow, that sounds _really_ stupid when Brendon says it out loud. It sounds like the dumbest thing ever, holy shit. Brendon wants to smack himself in the face.

"You don't think that's fucked up?" Spencer says. "Because maybe you should be calling a hotline. Or maybe I should be the one calling the hotline. Maybe we should both call the hotline and then I can turn myself in." His voice is unsteady, but there's a tiny smile edging at the corner of his mouth, like maybe it's starting to be okay for him to make the joke.

"I think it's fucked up if you do it to me all the time," Brendon says. "But I think if we set up a time for you to do it and then we have sex afterwards, it's really hot."

"I don't—" Spencer says, shaking his head. His voice cracks, and then he falls silent.

"Spencer, when you said that, about the bruises? I got hard," Brendon says softly. It takes effort to force the words out, and his cheeks are burning but it's worth it for the way Spencer's whole expression changes. He moves from pinched and scared and tense to something achingly open in the space of a heartbeat—and then it's gone again, masked by uncertainty, but Brendon's not stupid. He knows what he just saw.

"That's kind of fucked up," Spencer says unsteadily.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "But on the scale of weird shit that gets me off, it's pretty low. And if there's a time and a place and a way for me to stop it, then I think it sounds super hot."

"I don't—" Spencer says, and then takes a deep breath. "I don't know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything," Brendon says, nudging Spencer's foot with his own. Through the hallway window, Brendon watches as the streetlights snap on and start to buzz with a sharp, halogen glow. He can't look directly at them without blinding himself, so he focuses on Spencer instead. He's half illuminated, half in shadow, and Brendon thinks that if he were Ryan he'd probably be coming up with a clever metaphor about both of them standing on a precipice or some shit. He's really not Ryan, though. He sucks at metaphor.

"But know you're not the only one, okay?" Brendon says instead. "So stop freaking out and come make ramen with me and tell me all the shit you jerk off to. I bet mine's weirder. And then we can talk about how people make mistakes, and how wanting things in your head isn't the same as wanting them in real life."

"But I do," Spencer whispers, looking sick for a moment. "Want them. Sometimes I sit around and think about doing them to real people. To you."

"So do I," Brendon says. "I want a lot of them. I want you to do a lot of them _to_ me, if you're up for it. Eventually."

"What if I hurt you?" Spencer says. He looks intensely dubious.

"What if you do? What if I ask you for it? What if I like it?" Brendon says, shrugging and standing up, brushing himself off as he goes. "Look, we'll figure it out. Unless your fantasies are about like, fucking my dead body or something. In which case you should tell me so I can call that hotline and also the cops."

"Oh god," Spencer says weakly.

"Too soon?" Brendon says.

"Too soon," Spencer says, wincing. He looks nauseous again.

"Okay. Sorry." He slips his fingers into Spencer's, squeezing tight. Through the window he can hear the crackle of the streetlight, the snap-and-pop of the electricity humming down the power lines. He looks over at Spencer, watching him back with a cautious expression. His fingers are tight around Brendon's palm, holding on.

"You're serious about all of this," Spencer says. "You really don't think I'm—"

"I think you need to watch better porn," Brendon says. "Porn where lots of people do this kind of stuff. They all have passwords and shit, and everyone is super into it, and no one is scared or afraid unless it's part of the fantasy."

"Passwords?" Spencer says, frowning in confusion.

"Not passwords," Brendon says, dredging his brain to come up with the right word. "Sorry. I think—safewords? Yeah. Safewords."

"Huh," Spencer says. "So what, you say that and everything stops?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "We could try it like that. Then you'd know I was really into it, and not just afraid to say no."

"You've—have you ever been afraid of me?" Spencer asks softly, and his voice is so thin that it makes something in Brendon's chest ache to hear it. "You haven't, right?"

"No," Brendon says firmly, squeezing Spencer's hand. "Not even a little bit. I could totally take you in a bar fight." Spencer snorts, his expression smoothing out again.

"Come on," Brendon says, tugging on their joined hands as he leans towards the kitchen. "Ramen time. I'm starving. We can talk about filthy kinky porn while the water boils."

"You make it sound so enticing," Spencer says, but he follows Brendon's lead and lets Brendon pull him into the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My intention in writing this short ficlet was not to imply that BDSM and D/s lifestyles in any way mimic or reflect themes of domestic abuse. Spencer in this story has no real way of describing what he wants; he isn't aware that there is any other outlet for how he feels other than actual violence, which terrifies him. He also has no idea how to moderate that side of himself, and express it in an appropriate time and context. Because of this he comes to the wrong conclusions about himself in what I know (from experience, although not my own) to be a fairly realistic way of misinterpreting BDSM dynamics when you're a teenager.


End file.
